A Child Genius
by poisonesse
Summary: Just a few one-shots about Sherlock's life as a child. Will be updated whenever I get the inspiration. Could be fluffy, funny, angsty... enjoy.
1. Framing Mycroft

**A/N: Well, hi. I'm currently loving the whole idea of kid!Sherlock, so this is going to be a series of one-shots about his life as a kid. Feel free to tell me what you want to see... or if I should stop writing forever and go live in a cave. Either one is fine, really.**

Seven year-old Sherlock Holmes' head shot up as he heard the sound of a loud car pulling into the driveway of his family home. His frosty blue eyes widened and he jumped to his feet, rushing over to the window to see if his ears had deceived him. They hadn't.

Mummy was home.

'Oh, bugger.' Sherlock cursed under his breath, not caring that Mummy had forbidden him and Mycroft from cursing. After all, she wasn't here... yet. He rushed back to his experiment- a dead cat that he had found in the front garden- and stared at it, wondering how he could clear it up in less than a minute. Maybe he could just move the corpse, the knife and the microscope, and pretend to know nothing about the blood. But would that work? ... No. Mummy always knew when Sherlock was lying.

His eyes darted here, there, everywhere. He didn't want to get in trouble, not again- he was only just allowed to leave the house after the last experiment had nearly burned down the house, but had thankfully only burned a few minor items. Like Mycroft's school-work. After a moment of worry, Sherlock lit up with the thought of a bright idea. No, he couldn't clean up the mess that today's experiment had made before Mummy got out of the car and came back inside after her long day at work... but neither could Mycroft. Mycroft was home. Mycroft was reading. Mycroft wouldn't even look up from his book if Sherlock were to, say, drop a cut-open dead cat by his feet and then run off...

It was perfect.

He picked up the microscope and slipped it into his back pocket. Then, carefully, making sure not to disturb any of the modifications he had made to the mangy corpse, Sherlock scooped it and the knife up into his arms and then took of running to the living room, where, sure enough, Mycroft was lay on the couch, book so close to his face that if he held it any closer, it would be squashing his nose.

Sherlock let a wicked grin spring up across his face as he tip-toed over and lay the cat on the floor, right in front of Mycroft. There would be, if his calculations were correct, another twenty-five seconds or so before the sounds of Mummy coming in would make Mycroft look up from his book, see the cat, panic and try to move it...

Sherlock ran away again and went halfway up the stairs before crouching down and holding on to the banister, getting a good position to watch from, smiling in anticipation of the trouble Mycroft was going to be in.

Click, clack. Mummy's heels as she walked quickly up the pavement. Jingle, jangle. The keys being lifted out of her purse and inserted into the lock. Turn... click. The door being unlocked.

Mummy, looking tired after an eleven-hour shift at the hospital, entered the living room and let out a shriek. Her handbag fell to the floor.

Mycroft looked up in a panic, hunched over the dead cat, having tried to clear it up in the matter of seconds before Mummy came into the room. Sherlock slapped a hand to his mouth to stifle the snigger that rose up as Mummy's expression morphed from one of shock, to horror, to anger.

'_Mycroft Holmes_!'

**A/N: Just a... thing. Not very good, not very fun, but kind of inspiration-inspiring. If that makes sense. :) Remember to let me know what you think! **


	2. Truthful Little Devil

**A/N: Hi again! I was feeling bored, so... enjoy. **

'Get your fat arse off me!' Sherlock yelled, kicking and thrashing under his older brother's weight.

'Not until you apologize.' Mycroft replied stubbornly, not moving.

'Why? I was just being honest! Her dad _is_ having an affair!'

'She didn't need you to remind her of that!' Mycroft hissed, glaring at his younger brother.

'So I hurt your girlfriend's feelings, and now you try to crush my ribcage? That's hardly fair!'

'She was not my girlfriend!' Mycroft protested. 'She was my friend! And don't be stupid, I'm not crushing your ribcage. To do that, I would need to double my body weight and apply pressure in just the right spot.'

'Get _off_ me!'

'No!'

'_Mummy_!'

Sherlock's piercing cry resounded through the house. Mycroft froze and then, glancing round nervously to check that his mother wasn't about to come shooting into the room like a torpedo, hastily lifted himself off Sherlock, shooting his brother a nasty look. 'Crybaby.'

'Fat arse.'

'Sherlock Holmes! Did you just say what I think you said? And why were you shouting me?' Mrs Holmes then paused, taking in the angry looks on both brothers' faces. 'Oh, what's going on now?' she asked wearily, hurrying into the room still wearing an apron and a pair of oven mitts.

'Mycroft sat on me because I told the truth.' Sherlock answered.

Mrs Holmes sighed. 'I think Mycroft would have had more of a motive than that, sweetheart.'

'But I _did_ tell the truth. And then he sat on me. He was trying to crush my ribcage and kill me.'

'He told Cathy that her dad was having an affair!'

'Why is that so wrong? Her dad _is_ having an affair!' Sherlock repeated, a frustrated look on his young face.

'Oh, Sherlock.' Mrs Holmes scolded. 'You shouldn't be so rude!'

'But mummy,' Sherlock's blue eyes widened, his lower lip pouting out even more than normal, 'you and daddy always told me to tell the truth.'

Mycroft's mouth dropped open, appalled, as Mrs Holmes' face softened considerably.

'Well... I suppose you were only doing what you think is right, sweetheart.'

'Oh, mother-'

'Don't talk back, Mycroft.' Mrs Holmes snapped. 'You could have seriously hurt Sherlock, sitting on him like that.'

Great. Not only was Mummy taking Sherlock's side, but now she, too, was implying that Mycroft was fat.

'Yes, Mycroft.' Sherlock's lower lip wobbled almost comically. 'You could have seriously hurt me.'

'Oh, hush now.' Mrs Holmes sighed. 'Dinner is ready. Sherlock, I expect you to eat at least half of your portion today.'

'Yes, Mummy.' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as soon as his mother turned her back. Mrs Holmes returned to the kitchen, and Sherlock turned to Mycroft with a triumphant smile.

'Don't think Mummy will believe you about everything. She'll catch you out, you know.'

To Mycroft, and, though he would never admit it, Sherlock too, Mrs Scarlett Holmes was the most brilliant woman to have ever lived. She was like a Jesus/Superwoman/Mother Mary hybrid, and, according to the boys, she could do anything. It was for this reason that Mycroft was quite unable to believe that his Mummy would fall for Sherlock's lies, even when they were accompanied by the widened eyes and jutted lower lip that other people somehow saw as innocent.

'She never has before.' Sherlock boasted.

'You... you little brat.' Mycroft hissed.

'You're just jealous, because I'm too smart to get caught for anything.'

'But _I_ know the truth.'

'Yes, but you're just a fourteen year-old boy who acts superior to me and grows horizontally. You don't count.'

Mycroft, furious at the insult, opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by Mrs Holmes. 'Boys! Dinner- now!'

Sherlock gave Mycroft another grin before smoothing out his pyjamas and walking into the kitchen. Mycroft, realizing with a sense of misery that today's argument had been lost, bowed his head and trailed into the kitchen after his brother.

**A/N: I realize that Mycroft is a little OOC in this. Oh, well. Did I forget to mention that I do not own the brilliant Sherlock? Well, I don't.  
>~AlisaPhenom. XoXo<strong>


	3. A Very Holmes Dinner Party

**A/N: Yes, there is yet another one going up. Needless to say, I get bored easily, and writing these is a nice little way to entertain myself. Sherlock is seven years-old in this fic, and Mycroft is therefore fourteen. Enjoy! **

'Now, Sherlock,' Mr Edward Holmes started, crouching in front of his son and looking him sternly in the eye, 'Do you remember how you should behave at a dinner party?'

Sherlock paused, and then nodded. 'No analysing people, no rudeness, no embarrassing people, no being myself, no fun...'

'We're not saying you're not allowed to have fun, sweetheart.' Mrs Holmes bit her lip, exchanging a look with her husband. 'We're just saying that you need to have more social graces. I know you're young, but really, do you have to go blurting out people's secrets whenever you see them?'

'Well, I apologize for being clever.' Sherlock said haughtily, folding his arms indignantly and sticking his chin high in the air. 'But I happen to like showing people what I can do.'

'Please, Sherlock, do not misbehave tonight. My boss is coming to dinner- he has a promotion he wants to give out, and if you're not nice to him-' Sherlock snorted at the term _not nice_... such a childish term. Mr Holmes gave him a stern glare and continued, 'if you're a cheeky little sod to him, he might fire me. I'd lose my job, and then we'd have no money. Tell me, do you want that to happen?'

_At least you'd be home more often, _Sherlock thought bitterly. Knowing better than to voice his complaints, though, he simply rolled his eyes. 'Fine. But why aren't you giving this lecture to Mycroft?'

'Because I, unlike you, know how to handle myself in these situations.' Mycroft piped up, smiling smugly at Sherlock.

Sherlock shot him a nasty look. 'Shut up.'

'Do _not_ tell your brother to shut up, Sherlock.' Mrs Holmes said warningly. 'I warn you now, if you say anything offensive to Mr Duffy and his family later...'

'I'll behave.' Sherlock muttered glumly. Behind his back, he crossed his fingers. 'I promise.'

Mr Holmes ruffled his hair, much to Sherlock's annoyance, and Mrs Holmes beamed. 'Excellent.' she said. 'Now, go and get changed, the pair of you. Our guests will be arriving in half an hour.'

Mycroft immediately ran upstairs. _Probably the most exercise he'll get all year, _Sherlock thought with a smirk as he dragged himself off the couch and stomped up the stairs. He went to his room, closed the door tightly shut, and then sat on his bed, picked up his violin and started plucking absently at the strings. He didn't even look at the pile of clothes that Mummy had laid out for him until he had spent a good twenty minutes plucking at his violin strings.

Sherlock was just tying up his shoelaces, something that he was proud to be able to do, when he heard the doorbell ring downstairs.

'Sherlock!' Mrs Holmes screeched. 'Hurry up and get down here!'

Not having to be told twice, Sherlock hurried down the stairs, anticipating a night of dullness and boredom.

**** Later ** **

Sherlock stared down at his plate of food. He was trying, he actually really was. Trying his very hardest to not let Mr Duffy know, since he had clearly somehow missed it, that his eldest son was more into boys than he was girls.

'Sherlock,' Mrs Holmes hissed at him from across the table when the other guests were laughing at one of the truly appalling jokes that Mr Holmes had told , 'Eat your food. I spent ages on that!'

Sherlock's lip curled. 'I'm not hungry,' he replied.

Mrs Holmes shot him a warning look, one that Sherlock and Mycroft both liked to nickname 'The Look of Death'. It meant that you needed to do what you were told right away, or there would be consequences. The pair of them knew from experience that it was not a good look to receive. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. He picked up his fork and started suddenly shovelling his food into his mouth- mashed potato, steak that was slightly too undercooked for Sherlock's liking, peas, carrots, broccoli Oh, why had Mummy had to give him such a big portion?

The other guests had stopped laughing now, and were staring at Sherlock. Mrs Duffy, Mr Holmes' boss' wife, had a faint look of disgust on her face. Ha. And that was only at seeing Sherlock eat... if only she could see him doing his experiments.

Mr Holmes let out a slightly nervous-sounding chuckle. 'Sherlock, son, slow down. You'll get sick.'

Sherlock paused only to mumble, 'I need to eat or Mummy will take away my Swiss knife collection again,' before resuming in stuffing his face.

'Oh, for god's sake.' Mrs Holmes muttered. She looked at the guests. 'I'm terribly sorry about him.'

'Mum, why can a seven year-old get a whole collection of knives, when you won't even let me handle one?' Mr Duffy's fifteen year-old son, Joshua, complained.

'That's a good question.' Mrs Duffy said sharply, shooting a glance at Mrs Holmes, who rolled her eyes as soon as the other woman looked away.

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. 'Would you like more vegetables, Mummy?' he asked, ignoring the sniggers that came from the other boys, Sherlock included.

'No, thank you, dear.' Mrs Holmes answered.

'So, Mr Duffy-'

'Oh, do call me Philip.' Philip Duffy rolled his eyes. Sherlock decided on the spot, possibly for the eighth time that evening, that he did not like him. 'My full name is so tiresome.'

'Of course.' Mr Holmes frowned slightly. Sherlock deduced that he didn't much like his boss and his snotty family, either. 'How is everything?'

'It's fine, thank you.'

'Oh. Good.'

'This is boring.' Sherlock announced suddenly, pleased to be finally getting it off his chest. Because it was _true_- this was one of the most boring dinner parties that Sherlock had ever had the misfortune to attend in his seven year-old life.

'Sherlock!' his mother reprimanded.

'It's true.' Joshua surprised them all by sighing. 'This is _boring_.'

'See?' Sherlock gave a wide smile, then turned to Joshua. 'Shut up. You have no right to say that my mother's dinner is boring.'

The boy looked confused. 'But- you-'

'Quiet.' Sherlock snapped. He pushed his chair back and stood up. 'I'm going off to do an experiment, if you'll excuse me.'

'Sherlock Edward Holmes, sit down right this minute!' Mr Holmes ordered, looking quite red in the face.

Sherlock stared at his father for a few minutes before shaking his head stubbornly and folding his arms. 'No.'

'That child of yours is terribly ill-mannered.' Mrs Duffy tutted.

'Oh, be quiet.' Mrs Holmes snapped at her.

Mrs Duffy looked appalled, as did Mr Holmes. 'Scarlett!' he said, shocked.

'You have been getting on my nerves all night, with your little quips. I don't care if my boys aren't perfect- they are _my boys_, and I will raise them how I want!'

Mrs Duffy turned her nose up. 'And I can see where they get it from.' she stood up abruptly.

'Dear, do sit down.' Mr Duffy tried, looking embarrassed.

'No.' Mrs Duffy replied haughtily. 'I will not stand for this any longer. We have not been treated like guests tonight! Common filth, the lot of you!'

'How _dare_ you?' Mrs Holmes shrieked, also getting to her feet.

Sherlock smirked to himself. _Now _it was getting interesting.

'Please, calm down!' the two women's husbands were trying their very best to calm their wives down, but it just wasn't working. They started flinging insults at each other.

'I hope you're happy with yourself.' Mycroft glared at Sherlock, who stared innocently back.

'And how, may I ask, is this my fault?'

'If you hadn't have said anything, none of this would be happening!'

'Mummy's Boy.' Joshua snickered at Mycroft from across the table. His older brother, the one who Sherlock had discovered was an in-the-closet gay, elbowed Joshua in the ribs. 'Hey!' Joshua looked surprised. 'Peter, what did you do that for?'

'Will you just shut up?' Peter snapped. 'Stop showing off, for god's sake!'

Sherlock chuckled, and Peter shot him a look. 'And don't you start laughing, either.'

He hastily covered his laugh with a cough.

'Your wife is an animal!' Mr Duffy exclaimed, after failing to pull his wife away from the table.

'_My_ wife is an animal?' Mr Holmes asked incredulously.

The two started exchanging insults about their wives.

'Oh, this is perfect.' Sherlock said to himself, grinning wickedly. He sat back down in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, watching the show.

'Don't look so pleased about it!' Mycroft smacked Sherlock's arm down.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. 'Don't you hit me.'

'I didn't hit you.'

'Yes, you did. You did- _this_.' Sherlock imitated Mycroft's small smack on his brother's face, except much harder this time. Mycroft's face turned very red where the small hand had been in contact with it, and his eyes practically popped out of their sockets.

'Why- why- you-!'

Sherlock sniggered. Mycroft shoved him back in his chair, causing the younger boy to nearly fall off. 'Hey!'

And then the first piece of food was flung. A handful of mashed potato, creamy and white and steaming, landed in Mrs Duffy's hair, and Mrs Holmes gave a vicious smile of victory.

Mrs Duffy gave an appalled cry, and then scooped up some carrots, smothered in gravy. She tossed them at Mrs Holmes, who ducked with wide eyes... _splat_. Mr Holmes looked down at his once-pristine suit, now with gravy and carrots spilling down it. His face turned even more red than before.

'Stop! Stop this!' Mr Duffy was shouting, only to be ignored. Everyone stared at each other- Sherlock very quickly got bored with the sudden lack of action, so he picked up his plate and dumped the contents over Mycroft's head. It was an amusing sight, to see his older brother with steak and potatoes dripping down his face.

A roast potato suddenly hit Sherlock in the side of the head. He glanced around with narrowed eyes at the thrower. Joshua smiled in triumph. 'I've been wanting to do that to you _all night_.'

Suddenly, food was being flung here, there and everywhere. Sherlock laughed out loud as he skilfully dodged most of the thrown food.

'I'm going to do my experiment now.' he called over the commotion. 'It's been really nice meeting you and your family, Mr Duffy. I do hope you'll consider my father for that promotion you're handing out.'

And with that, Sherlock slipped out of the room and ran up the stairs, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it with a rare fit of laughter.

Oh, yes. He'd been thoroughly entertained for the night... and, technically, he had stuck by the rules. He hadn't told anyone about his observations, and he technically hadn't _started_ the food fight. Oh, yes. The dinner party really _had_ turned out to be fun.

**A/N: He is a devious little sod, isn't he? ;) Thank you for the positive reception I've gotten so far! Hope you enjoyed this.  
>~AlisaPhenom. XoXo<strong>


	4. Stupid Cinderella

**A/N: Hi again. Just a little... thing. :) Sherlock is six years old. Enjoy! **

Sherlock Holmes sighed impatiently as his mother sat on his bed, book in hand. 'Mummy. Really. I don't want a bedtime story.'

She gave him a disapproving look. 'You're getting one anyway. At least if I'm in here reading to you, you won't be downstairs ripping pages out of Mycroft's books.'

'That was purely experimental!'

'Do be quiet and let me read to you. This is a story called Cinderella-'

'Boring.' Sherlock interrupted, pretending to yawn. 'I promise I'll go straight to sleep if you just go.'

'Sherlock! What happened to the days when you would be thrilled if I offered to read to you?'

'But those were the days before Mycroft taught me to read proper books for myself.'

Mrs Holmes blinked, then frowned. 'That was Mycroft? Mycroft was the one who taught you to read? Not me?'

'Obviously. He was getting tired of me telling him about Beauty and the Beast, apparently, so he put Einstein's Theory of Evolution in front of me and told me to read.'

'But... I thought that was something me and daddy were supposed to teach you!'

'You were too busy prattling on about fairytales.' Sherlock sighed, then paused when he saw that his Mummy looked genuinely hurt. 'Although,' he added quietly. 'I suppose... I did like those fairytales.'

Mrs Holmes then beamed. 'See? You're not too old for a bedtime story. Now, listen. Once upon a time-'

'Such an unoriginal opening.'

Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes. She knew that she wouldn't be getting through this story with out continuous interruptions from her ridiculously clever son, but she pressed on, regardless. 'Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young maiden named Cinderella-'

Sherlock paused; Mummy hadn't ever told him this fairytale before. Then he frowned. 'Cinderella? That sounds like a disease, not a name.'

'Sherlock isn't exactly a common name, either.' Mrs Holmes reminded Sherlock gently. 'Anyway, Cinderella was very unhappy. Her mother was dead-'

'Isn't this supposed to be a happy story?'

'Shush. Cinderella's mother was dead, and her father had married a widow with two daughters. Soon after, Cinderella's father died of illness-'

'It's not sounding very happy so far, Mummy.'

'_Sherlock. _Cinderella thought of her new mother and sisters as her evil step-mother and her ugly step-sisters-'

'That's a bit mean.' Sherlock snorted. 'And such a stereotype. I can tell in the first few sentences who the villain is.'

'Needless to say, the evil step-mother and her ugly step-sisters didn't like Cinderella one bit-'

'Probably because she's calling them names.'

'Sherlock! Anyway, they got all of the fancy clothes and special presents while Cinderella was given simple rags and dishcloths.' Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt once again, but his mother silenced him with a glare. 'They made her do all the chores, all the cleaning and all the cooking. Cinderella spent her days scrubbing floors and washing clothes while her ugly step-sisters and her evil step-mother went out having fun in the town. One day, Cinderella was busy cleaning when a letter arrived.'

'Undoubtedly, this is going to be some wonderful opportunity for Cinderella to wear a pretty dress and find her Prince Charming, but it's going to be spoiled by her step-mother and sisters.'

Mrs Holmes frowned. 'How on earth do you know that?'

'It's obvious. It happens in all the fairytales. Oh, and the title 'evil-stepmother' is a clue, too.'

Mrs Holmes paused for a few seconds, and then scowled. 'Just listen to the rest of the story. Cinderella read the letter, and was thrilled to see that it held three invitations to the Prince Charming's ball, which he was throwing in the hopes of finding a wife.'

'See?'

'Cinderella waited until her step-mother and sisters returned home before showing them the letters. They laughed in her face when they realized that Cinderella wanted to attend the ball, and told her that they three would be going, but Cinderella would clearly be too busy cleaning the house to join them.'

'And, once again, I am proved right.'

'Cinderella was dismayed. That night, she worked extra hard to make sure the whole house was cleaned, so she could attend the ball the next day. The following morning, she presented the clean house to her evil-stepmother and her ugly step-sisters-'

'Stop calling them that.'

'But... it's what they are...'

'I understand that. I understood it the first time you said it. Please, just refer to them as Cinderella's mother and sisters from now on.'

'Sherlock.' Mrs Holmes chided, before continuing, 'The step-mother and sisters were unhappy that the clean house gave Cinderella a chance to attend the ball. So, throughout the day, they worked hard to make sure that it was a mess again by evening.'

'Pointless.'

'When the time came for the step-mother and step-sisters to attend the ball, Cinderella was once again too busy with cleaning the house to go with them. The evil step-mother wanted one of her two daughters to marry Prince Charming so that their family could become rich-'

'But wouldn't she have more chance of someone in her family marrying royalty if she let Cinderella go to the ball? That way, if Cinders was miraculously picked over the ugly step-sisters, which is looking increasingly likely, one of her daughters- step-daughter at least- would be married to royalty, therefore giving the family the riches they desire.'

'I don't think fairytales work like that, Sherlock.'

'They should.'

'But they don't.' Mrs Holmes frowned. 'Anyway, the step-mother wanted their family to become rich, so she dressed her two favourite daughters in their best frocks, with their best jewellery and their best make-up on. Still, they looked hideous. The three left after taunting Cinderella about how much work she had to do, and Cinderella started weeping. It was just at that moment that Cinderella's fairy-godmother-'

'Oh, for goodness' sake, Mummy, this is even worse than the one about the girl who wouldn't wake up.'

'I thought you liked Sleeping Beauty?'

Sherlock glowered. 'Mummy. I do not like Sleeping Beauty. It is a girl's tale, and apparently, so is this.'

'They're not made for specific genders. Stop talking and listen, for god's sake, Sherlock.' Mrs Holmes was starting to wonder whether it was worth even trying to tell Sherlock the tale. But, she had already started, so she may as well continue. 'It was at this moment, as Cinderella was weeping, that the fairy-godmother appeared. She smiled at Cinderella, and said, _"I know how much you want to go to the ball, Cinderella, and so go you shall!"_ _"How can I go, dressed in rags like this?"_ Cinderella replied, shocked.'

'She's a fairy, Cinderella. Obviously, if she can appear and disappear at will, she can conjure clothes, too.' Sherlock tutted. 'Stupid girl.'

Mrs Holmes tried to give her son a disapproving glare, but it quickly turned into a smile when she saw how passionate he was getting about a little fairytale. She continued, 'The fairy-godmother smiled again, and, with a wave of her wand, Cinderella was wearing the most beautiful pink gown. The fairy-godmother waved her wand a few more times, and soon enough a simple pumpkin had been turned into a glittering carriage, six mice had been turned into six pure white horses, and a rat had been turned into a carriage-driver, complete with a pristine uniform and a whip.'

'Ridiculous.' Sherlock muttered to himself.

'Cinderella couldn't believe her eyes. She climbed into the carriage and rode to the ball, but not before her fairy-godmother told her, _"You must be back by midnight, or the spell wears off!"_. Cinderella arrived at the ball and had a wonderful time. She was the most beautiful girl in the palace-'

'Of course.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Looks _would_ mean everything to everyone else, wouldn't they?'

'And, soon enough, she found herself dancing with Prince Charming himself. It was love at first sight for both of them, and the Prince declared that Cinderella was the one who he wanted to marry. Just then, the clock chimed, signalling midnight. Cinderella gasped and, without any warning, freed herself from the Prince's arms and ran away, leaving just one glass slipper on the stairs.'

'How convenient.'

'The Prince picked up the slipper, and vowed that he would find Cinderella again, using just that slipper.'

'That wouldn't be that difficult.' Sherlock sighed. 'I can already think of eight different ways.'

'Do be quiet. The story's nearly finished.' Mrs Holmes said.

'Thank god.' Sherlock muttered, leaning his head back against his pillow. He saw Mrs Holmes' glare, and hastily added, 'I'm just tired.'

'The next day, Prince Charming went around different houses, searching for Cinderella by allowing girls to try on the shoe. If if fit them, then the Prince would marry them. If it didn't, he would know they were not Cinderella, and move on.'

Sherlock frowned. 'That's.. that's... that's bloody stupid!'

'_Sherlock_!'

'I mean, that's not one of my eight ways.' he corrected himself. 'What if she shoe fit someone who wasn't Cinderella? It's completely unreliable.'

'Of course it is, sweetheart.' Mrs Holmes sighed. 'Of course it is. Am I allowed to continue?'

'No.'

'I'm going to anyway.' she said, smiling slightly when she saw Sherlock's eyelids start to droop. Genius or not, the boy was still a child, and all children got tired. 'Eventually, Prince Charming got to Cinderella's house. She was being locked in the cupboard as punishment for disobeying her step-mother, and so wasn't allowed to go out and tell the Prince that it was her. The step-sisters tried on the shoes, but they were too small for their clumsy feet. Then the step-mother tried on the shoes, but they were once again ill-fitting. Prince Charming was about to leave when the fairy-godmother appeared again, letting Cinderella out of the cupboard.'

'How did she even fit in the cupboard in the first place?' Sherlock asked, confused.

Mrs Holmes chuckled. 'I think you're getting confused.'

'No, Mummy, I think _you _are. You mean closet, don't you?'

Mrs Holmes paused, then frowned. 'Yes. Yes, I do mean that. I... shut up and listen. Cinderella cried out for the Prince to wait and he doubtfully offered her the shoe to try on, not thinking that a poor-looking girl like her would be his potential bride. Cinderella tried the shoe on, and, to the Prince's surprise, it was a perfect fit.'

'Of course, this could have been entirely misleading, since the shoe could have fit anyone who had the same size feet as Cinderella.' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 'That is a major hole in the story. It should be fixed.'

'This story is years old, Sherlock.' Mrs Holmes pursed her lips disapprovingly. 'It's not going to be changed any time soon. Anyway, the Prince whisked Cinderella away and they married immediately. They had a royal wedding, to which the step-mother and sisters were not invited, and they lived-'

'Yes, yes, happily ever after.' Sherlock mumbled sleepily. 'Magic doesn't exist, the shoe could have fit anyone, and that whole tale was filled with stereotypes. Thanks for the story, Mummy. Goodnight.'

Mrs Holmes frowned, for possibly the millionth time that hour, and stood up. She sighed; she should have known it was pointless to try and tell Sherlock a fairytale. 'Goodnight.' she said, slipping out of the room when Sherlock quickly fell asleep.

**** The Next Day** **

'Sherlock, breakfast is ready.' Mrs Holmes called, knocking lightly on the door to her youngest son's bedroom. No reply. She frowned and gently pushed the door open. 'Sherlock?'

She saw him then, sat on his bed hunched over a book, eyes closed and light snores escaping his mouth. Mrs Holmes chuckled and went over, carefully taking the book from Sherlock's grasp and examining the cover.

It was a book all about the theories on magic being real.

Mrs Holmes shook her head incredulously to herself, staring at the sleeping Sherlock. 'Unbelievable.' she whispered to herself, before putting the book back on the bed and shaking her son awake.

**A/N: I was feeling fluffy, and I just... yeah. :) Hope you liked!  
>~AlisaPhenom. XoXo <strong>


	5. Bullies

**A/N: I may have forgot to mention it previously, but I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to the BBC, and the geniuses who are Moffat and Gatniss. So, off we go, then! Sherlock is nine in this. :) Enjoy! **

'You're just a freak.' one of the bigger boys sneered at Sherlock, shoving his shoulder roughly. 'Just a stupid little _freak_.'

'And you're a ballet dancer.' Sherlock stated, then blinked as the other boy froze in surprise. 'Oh, I'm sorry, were your _friends_ not meant to know that?'

'Shut up!' Bully Number One yelled, pushing Sherlock again, harder this time- the younger boy toppled to the floor of the playground.

'It's not like you hide it or anything.' Sherlock continued, barely ruffled. 'You walk with a kind of dancer's grace, and when you stand still you raise up onto your tiptoes... almost as if you're not aware you're doing it. You may be on the rugby team, but even when you're playing and diving for the ball, it's nearly like you're dancing. The way you dive for the ball, and stand with the posture only a ballet dancer would have.' Sherlock paused, and grinned. 'Oh, and your mum told my mum that she didn't like having to pay for your lessons. But don't worry, that's not cheating.'

The first kick landed in Sherlock's stomach. The second one hit Sherlock in the leg, and it came from the other boy. Bully Number Two. A pained grunt escaped his lips.

'You- abnormal- little- freak!' Bully Number Two hissed between kicks.

'We'll bash your brain in so hard that you won't be able to make those stupid little deductions!' Bully Number One promised venomously.

Sherlock snorted. 'Of course you will.'

A punch, a punch in the cheek. A heavy foot stomped on the nine year-old's ankle. Sherlock didn't fight back; he _couldn't_ fight back, for three reasons... one, he was outnumbered. Two, he was in too much pain to move his muscles in such a way. Three, he was currently occupied.

'What in god's name do you boys think you're doing?' a voice demanded, a stern voice, laced with anger.

Sherlock had never been so thankful for the headmaster's existence in his life. Much as he loathed to admit it, the attacks had been hurting him, and the interruption was a _godsend_. On the other hand, though, Sherlock knew that Bullies One and Two wouldn't get the punishment that Sherlock liked to get... for two reasons this time. One, Bully Number Two's father happened to be the same headmaster who was currently intervening in Sherlock's beating-up session. Two, the punishment that Sherlock wanted the other two boys to get was illegal in twenty two states.

The boys were being roared at, yes. But no serious action would be taken. It was a simple fact of life that those who were favoured by people in power tended to get off more lightly than anyone else.

And so Sherlock was pulled to his feet and taken to first aid. His cheek was dabbed with a stinging liquid and his body was examined. The nurse found only bruises, but warned Sherlock that walking may be painful for a day or two. Sherlock didn't care. His parents were phoned, the bullies were given a serious talking-to, and then everyone went home and assumed everything was fine again.

But the next day, when Sherlock returned to school, it happened all over again, just as it had for the past two weeks. People taunted Sherlock, he retorted, next thing he knew, he was in the nurse's office being checked for injuries. It was a vicious cycle, one that Sherlock now knew would probably never end.

Because, he realized, he _was_ a freak. No one else could do the things that Sherlock could do. No one else was as smart as him, or as bold. Even Mycroft couldn't match up to Sherlock's intellect.

And so, because he was different, Sherlock was the victim.

Of course, he didn't go down without throwing a few insults around. But what good did words do, really? They didn't block the kicks. They didn't divert the punches. So the bullying came, again and again.

But never, not once, did Sherlock Holmes fight back.

**A/N: As you can probably tell, I was more than a little depressed when I wrote this. Life has too much drama. I always imagined that Sherlock would have been bullied... it's a horrible thing. Hope I've not ruined anyone's birthday or anything... :) Thanks for reading!  
>~AlisaPhenom. XoXo <strong>


	6. Valentine's Day

**A/N: I wanted to write something fluffy and cute in anticipation of Valentine's Day. Technically, this isn't breaking the rules, because it's never been mentioned that Sherlock never had a girlfriend- just that he'd never had sex. And it's unlikely he's going to have sex in this thing, because, well, he's nine years old. Enough said. I do apologize in advance for any spelling/grammar/punctuation errors- I am much too lazy to do anything more than run it through spell check. :) Enjoy! **

A small, dark-haired boy sat at his desk at the back of the classroom, staring at the clock on the wall, waiting impatiently for the school bell to ring and signal the start of break-time.

He had, stuffed in his pocket, a hastily scrawled pink card, with the words, _To Elizabeth, Happy Valentine's Day, Love Sherlock, _written inside it. On the front was a simple red heart.

Sherlock was both relieved and strangely nervous when the bell finally rang, and he walked with deliberate slowness out to the corridor.. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. Maybe this whole _romance_ thing that Mummy kept telling him about was overrated. Maybe Elizabeth didn't like Sherlock the same way that he liked her. Maybe she would laugh in his face and tell the other boys that the pathetic freak called Sherlock Holmes had had the nerve to give her a Valentine's Card...

It was this thought that nearly made Sherlock rip up the card on the spot. But then, as he stepped onto the playground of his school, he spotted the girl he was looking for. Elizabeth McNulty, the prettiest girl in the whole of Sherlock's year, with her long red hair and wide green eyes. That strange feeling of nervousness filled Sherlock once more, and he felt confused with her. As a rule, Sherlock didn't _get_ nervous. This was a new experience, and he wasn't sure if he liked it.

But then Sherlock thought of Mycroft and his girlfriends, and he thought, _If Mycroft can do it, why can't I? _

He spotted a bundle of pretty white-purple flowers, growing on one of the flowerbeds that decorated the pathway that led out to the playground. Sherlock bent down and plucked a few of the flowers from the ground. If anything, this could only better his chances of being successful, couldn't it?

He made his way over to Elizabeth, pulling the slightly crinkled card from his pocket as he did so. When he reached her, she surprised Sherlock by greeting him with a wide smile. Sherlock gave her a small, shy smile back, and, wordlessly, he reached out and handed her the flowers and card.

The smile spread wider across Elizabeth's face. 'For me?' she asked, taking them from his hand.

Sherlock managed to stop himself from saying _obviously_, and instead gave a slight nod. Satisfied, at least, that Elizabeth had taken the gift instead of laughing in his face, he turned and started to walk away, only to be stopped by a small hand wrapping around his arm.

He turned with a raised eyebrow. 'Thank you.' Elizabeth smiled, a small blush forming on her cheeks, before she leaned in and planted a small kiss on Sherlock's cheek. Then she walked away.

Sherlock stood, speechless, staring after her for a few seconds, before he grinned. His hand flew to his cheek, fingers dancing around the small spot of heat that had started as soon as Elizabeth's lips had touched it.

_Happy Valentine's Day, _he thought contentedly to himself.

**A/N: Oh, dear Sherlock. He's kind of OOC, I know, but I wanted it that way, so yes. :) Hope you liked this, especially after a slightly depressing last chapter. Thank you for reviewing, or adding to favourites/alerts.  
>~AlisaPhenom. XoXo<strong>


	7. Miss Tilly

**A/N: I should be doing homework right now. I should really, really, really be doing homework... but I'm not, so, I guess my school can just suck it. :) Sherlock is eight. Enjoy! **

Sherlock lay on the carpet, frowning as he peered through the microscope at the pieces of dust he had collected.

'Mummy,' he complained, looking up, 'This microscope is awful. It doesn't even show anything.'

'It's called imagination, dear.' Mrs Holmes said, not looking up from her newspaper.

Sherlock's frown deepened and he returned to looking through the microscope. He started fiddling with a dial on the side, trying to see if he could somehow make it less blurry- _snap. _The boy's eyes widened as the dial fell to the floor, followed by another piece of plastic that Sherlock thought was probably important.

'Mummy,' he said again, hesitantly looking at his mother, 'I think I just broke my imagination.'

This time, Mrs Holmes looked up with a frown to match her son's. Her eyes went to the pieces of microscope on the floor, and she scowled. 'Honestly, Sherlock, can you not keep even one of your toys intact?'

'I didn't do anything!' Sherlock protested, already standing up and brushing the microscope and its pieces to the side with his foot. 'And it was boring anyway. Where's Miss Tilly?' he added, tilting his head to the side. He was referring to the Holmes family's new cat, something which Mrs Holmes had suggested might take Sherlock's mind off his experiments for at least a little while.

Mrs Holmes smiled, pleased that Sherlock had said this instead of _Where's my knife collection? _'She's in the garden.'

A slight smile made its way onto Sherlock's face. 'Excellent.' he said, before turning and running out the door, oversized blue dressing down trailing after him.

'Don't go outside wearing your father's dressing down!' Mrs Holmes called after him, setting her newspaper aside. 'You know he hates it when you do that!'

'Don't care!' came Sherlock's shouted reply.

Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes.

****A Child Genius** **

'Here, Miss Tilly.' Sherlock said in a hiss, waggling his fingers in front of him as he tried to beckon the cat closer.

He felt stupid doing it, but he didn't care. He had an experiment in mind, and he needed Miss Tilly in order to make it work.

After a few minutes of this, Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and straightened out from the crouch he had been in, furrowing his brow. 'Stupid cat.' he muttered, turning to walk away. He was stopped by a small meow, and the feel of a furry body rubbing against his leg.

He looked down at Miss Tilly with a smirk. 'Good girl.'

Sherlock leaned down and scooped the cat up into his arms, before running back inside, so fast that he almost blurred right past his mother and up the stairs. He reached his room and shut the door over. Miss Tilly dropped to the ground with a hiss as Sherlock started rummaging in his drawers for the scissors that he required- not the safety scissors, which he tossed behind him. They hit the wall with a thud. He dug further into the drawer until he felt his hands come into contact with smooth, cool metal. Sherlock grinned to himself and pulled the object out, his grin turning triumphant when he saw that they were just what he needed. Very large, very sharp scissors.

The eight year-old turned to Miss Tilly. 'Come here, girl.' he said brightly.

The cat whined.

**** A Child Genius** **

'Sherlock?' Mrs Holmes called up to her youngest son, frowning when she didn't get a reply after a few seconds. 'Sherlock!'

'Do you want me to go and get him, Mummy?' Mycroft asked politely, looking up from his plate.

'Yes, please, dear.' Mrs Holmes sighed. 'Tell him his dinner's ready. And hurry, you don't want your dinner getting cold.'

Mycroft nodded and got up from his seat before jogging upstairs, yelling '_Sherlock!_' as he did so.

It was as Mrs Holmes was spooning a few more vegetables onto Sherlock's plate- a young boy like him can never have too many vegetables- that she heard the scream. Well, it was more like a horrified cry... and it sounded like it was coming from Mycroft.

'Oh, for god's sake.' she muttered, folding her arms and glaring angrily at the stairs, wondering whether or not it was worth even trying to sort out whatever trouble Sherlock had inevitably caused.

After a few moments of internal debate, Mrs Holmes started to trudge up the stairs. She entered her son's room with a feeling of dread, and, when she saw what he had done, she stared at his latest experiment with an expression of horror before she let out a scream.

'It wasn't me!' Sherlock protested feebly as Mrs Holmes pulled him to his feet by his ear. 'It was Mycroft! I was framed, Mummy, I swear!'

'How could you be so _cruel_, Sherlock? How could you _kill_ our cat?' Mrs Holmes demanded, glancing down at the corpse of Miss Tilly and then looking away with a feeling of nausea.

'It was for an-'

'Don't you _dare_ say that it was for an experiment!' Mrs Holmes hissed.

Mycroft was kneeling by the remains of what was essentially _his _cat, looking quite distraught. It seemed that Sherlock had slit the poor cat's belly open, and her tiny little insides were lying in a cereal bowl that Sherlock had never returned to the kitchen.

'She was old, Mummy, so I thought that if she was going to die soon _anyway_, and if using her insides to examine would be helpful to the study of science, then I may as well.' Sherlock said quietly, looking down.

'Apologize.' Mrs Holmes ordered. 'To me and to your brother. Apologize right now.'

The young boy swallowed hard, then looked at his mother. 'I'm sorry, Mummy.' he said. He looked at Mycroft. 'Sorry.' he muttered.

'You're to clean this mess up right now. And you're grounded... until I say otherwise.' Mrs Holmes said, letting go of Sherlock's ear and turning on her heel, walking out. 'And spray something in there to make the smell go away...' she called weakly over her shoulder as an afterthought.

**A/N: Poor Miss Tilly, eh? Hope you liked this! Thanks for reviewing, feel free to do so again.**

**~AlisaPhenom. XoXo**


	8. Parent's Evening

**A/N: Oh, look, I'm back. Sherlock is around twelve years old in this one... so, yeah. Enjoy!**

'Mummy,' Sherlock whined. 'Do we have to go to parent's evening?'

Mrs. Holmes shot her son a disapproving look, lips pursed and brows slightly furrowed. 'Of course we do, Sherlock,' she said. 'I need to know how you're getting on in school.'

'Why?' the boy pressed as his mother- quite literally- dragged him along the street by the sleeve of his school blazer. 'You already know that I'm getting good marks in most subjects, and-'

'This is not up for discussion, young man,' Mrs. Holmes said firmly. 'We are going, and that is final. Look, we're nearly there now. This will all be over and done with in an hour or so, I promise.'

Sherlock looked away and grumbled something under his breath, and Mrs. Holmes was slightly relieved that she couldn't hear it. Her son had been in an apparently constant foul mood since the school term had started, and she was more than eager to find out why. Mycroft could offer no explanation, and obviously, his father wasn't around enough to figure out why- so, really, parent's evening was Mrs. Holmes' last hope. If his teachers couldn't tell her why he was so upset lately, then she'd probably never find out.

'Can I at least wait outside the classrooms?' Sherlock asked in an almost pleading voice.

Mrs. Holmes looked at him for the longest moment, then let out an exasperated sigh. 'Fine,' she said. 'Fine, you don't have to come with me to talk to the teachers. But I _am_ still going to talk to them.'

She wondered what he found so awful about school that made him so reluctant to even step foot inside the classrooms outside of school time. Before now, he'd never shown any signs of disliking the place more than any child would. It had gotten Mrs. Holmes to thinking on various occasions, but whenever she came up with a possible solution, she expelled it from her mind in the hopes that it wasn't the case.

She supposed she'd be finding that out tonight, though. She had to brace herself for whatever bad news was to come regarding her youngest child.

When they arrived at the school, Sherlock whined and moaned about how much of a waste of time this was, and that there was nothing to learn from it, and that he'd much rather be at home reading of performing an experiment. By the time she was approaching the first teacher's classroom, she'd just started simply ignoring him.

'Who's this I'm about to see, Sherlock?' she asked when they reached the door, pulling her son's schedule from her pocket and trying to search it for the classroom number.

'Mrs. Figgins,' Sherlock replied flatly. 'She hates me. She'll probably lie about what an awful child I am.'

Mrs. Holmes merely rolled her eyes. 'Lies. Of course. I'll take your word for it. Now, wait here. I won't be long.'

With that, she pushed open the classroom door and walked in to see a short, plump woman with round glasses and a startlingly bright shade of lipstick sat behind the teacher's desk.

When she saw her, Mrs. Holmes inwardly groaned, but nevertheless plastered a bright smile on her face. 'Mrs. Figgins,' she greeted. 'Lovely to meet you. I'm Mrs. Holmes- Sherlock's mother?'

'Ah, yes,' Mrs. Figgins said, sniffing haughtily and giving her a strange look from behind her glasses. '_You're _Sherlock's mother. Mrs. Holmes, please, do sit down.'

Mrs. Holmes did so, the smile never once leaving her face. 'You're my son's English teacher, aren't you?'

'Yes, I am,' she said. Then she frowned. 'Mrs. Holmes, before we start, I must ask: is everything okay at home? With Sherlock, I mean? He hasn't been having any... troubles?'

That depends what you mean by troubles, Mrs. Holmes thought dryly. But, ever the concerned mother, she matched the teacher's frowned and echoed, 'Troubles?'

'Yes.' Mrs. Figgins cleared her throat and reached across the desk, her short fingers picking up a stack of papers decorated with Sherlock's definitively neat handwriting. 'Her, er- he's a skilled boy, Mrs. Holmes, but he writes some... peculiar things in his pieces.'

Immediately, Mrs. Holmes leaped into protective mother mode. 'Like?' she pressed, raising an eyebrow. 'He's very creative, and he tends to let his imagination run wild sometimes. It has nothing to do with his home life, he's just advanced for his age-'

Her little speech was interrupted when Mrs. Figgins wordlessly thrust the papers towards her, gesturing for her to take them. Mrs. Holmes did, unable to stop herself from snatching, and read through them, carefully and curiously.

As she looked through the first one, her jaw dropped.

He'd written about the people in his class. And he hadn't written very nice things about them, either- deducing this and that about their personal lives, their relationships, their personalities. Callling them out on their flaws. He... her little boy had written a hate piece about his classmates.

'That's not all,' Mrs. Figgins said shortly.

Mrs. Holmes' frown deepened and she moved onto the next page. He'd written about his family on this one. The first paragraph wasn't bad- he'd written about how he sometimes got into trouble for being himself, but that was okay, because he could admit that sometimes he did bad things when he was being himself. But in the next few paragraphs... oh, god. He'd written about how he wasn't allowed to express himself freely, about how he wished his father wasn't away from home so often, about how he wished his family had more time for him.

'Oh, Sherlock,' Mrs. Holmes murmured quietly at the page. 'Oh, Sherlock.'

'As well as that, Sherlock can be very... challenging, at times. He's rude to myself and to the other students, he lacks manners, and he simply refuses to get along with anyone else.' Mrs. Figgins paused, and suddenly, a sympathetic look was on her face. 'I think that, along with his constant... er, deductions, is why he's getting targeted by the bullies.'

Mrs. Holmes froze. What? Bullies? Her mind went into overdrive- Sherlock was being bullied at school? Could it be true? Why hadn't he told her? Was this the reason why he was being so glum lately?

It all clicked into place in her mind, and she resisted the urge to groan despairingly. She met Mrs. Figgins' eyes and asked quietly, 'Excuse me?'

The woman in front of her looked slightly surprised, with her eyebrows raised, before pursing her lips and saying, 'You mean he hasn't told you?' The sympathy on her face increased, and she elaborated. 'Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock has been having trouble with bullies for weeks now- since term started, actually. He... did you not notice the, er, bruises?'

'He said that he'd fallen over,' Mrs. Holmes said tersely. The very thought of someone, anyone, hurting her boy was enough to make her sick to her stomach.

Mrs. Figgins nodded, casting her eyes down.

'Why isn't the school doing something about this?' Mrs. Holmes asked shortly. 'If he's being bullied, why aren't you doing something about it, and why aren't you confronting the bullies?' She was on a roll now, and was sure that her voice was getting louder with each word. 'Who are they, anyway? Who's doing this to my son?'

'Mrs. Holmes, please calm down,' Mrs. Figgins said, looking slightly worried. 'I assure that we're doing everything in our power to stop-'

'It's clearly not enough!' the concerned mother snapped. 'Who is it? Tell me who's doing it!'

'It, er...' Mrs. Figgins looked away. 'Three boys in Sherlock's class.'

'Their names, please.'

'Well... there's Michael Sullivan, Thomas O' Grady and... and Jonathan Denny.'

After a beat, Mrs. Holmes spoke again, realisation dawning on her. 'Denny? Isn't... isn't that the headmaster's last name?' Her only answer was silence, but it was good enough for her. She stared at the English teacher, aghast, before abruptly standing up. 'I understand it now,' she said acidly. 'The school isn't doing anything about it because it's the headmaster's _spawn_ and his friends who are doing it.' She shook her head, pulling her handbag over her shoulder and starting to walk out. 'I'll be having words, Mrs. Figgins, I assure you of that.'

Mrs. Holmes slammed the door after her, and when she saw her Sherlock, leaning against the wall opposite the door and looking at her with a vaguely worried expression, she couldn't help but swoop down and enfold him in a fierce hug.

'Mummy?' he questioned when she finally pulled away, looking confused. 'Is everything okay?'

'Sherlock,' she said. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Tell yo-' he started, but was cut off by a warning glare from his mother. He must have realised that there was no point in playing dumb with her now, so he just sighed and looked away. After a moment, he said quietly, 'It's not that bad.'

'Sherlock Holmes!'

'I don't want to talk about it, Mummy.'

'Well, I do,' she said firmly. She reached out to take his hand, but he merely stared at it questioningly. Sighing, she withdrew it. 'We're going to talk about this at length when we get home.' She paused, then added as an afterthought, 'With your father, too.'

Sullenly, the blue-eyed boy nodded. Then, with a gesture down the hallway, he said, 'If you think the talk with Mrs. Figgins was bad, wait until you go to see Mr. Tucker.'

Mrs. Holmes pursed her lips as her son led her down the hallway. Oh, great.****

**A/N: Oh, how I've missed writing these. Sorry if this one dragged a bit- I was very tired when I wrote it.  
>~Heather<strong>


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